Motorcycles & Sweetgrass

by Drew Hayden Taylor

  Gradually, as dawn approached, the storm weakened. The lightning flashed less and less frequently, and the thunder crashed less. The wind died down, and the trees stopped protesting. Eventually, even the rain had other places to go, and peace returned to the land, and especially this land of internment. The ground smelled of renewal. Rain was life, even amid death.

  “For you,” said the man quietly. “That was for you, Lillian.”

  Once all was quiet, the figure by the fence loosened his grip on the wire and undid his leather jacket. The chickadee stuck his head out, aware the troubles had passed. Without even a thank-you, it flew off and disappeared into the night. The man shook his head, marvelling at some animals’ rudeness. Once more he crossed through the ditch and up to his waiting bike. One long-ago promise to Lillian had been fulfilled. He had brought her the thunderstorm, finally. Off in the distance, fighting against the dark rain clouds, the first hint of dawn could be seen peeking up from the horizon in the east. It was time to go.

  John had still much to do, and little time to do it. Full dawn would be in a few hours and he wanted to be done by then. The rain had softened the ground, perfect for what he must do. Afterward, he would bring a little of the rain back to wash away any evidence. Granted, he would get wet and dirty by the end of it. But leather is so easy to clean, and he’d survived a lot worse. Besides, Maggie was definitely worth it.

  He started his motorcycle and headed for the controversial three hundred acres, his headlight illuminating the way.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The morning air had the clean feel to it that only comes after a night of rain. Wayne, Virgil and Maggie were having breakfast. The clinking of spoon against cereal bowl, the sipping of coffee and orange juice and the shifting in wooden chairs were all that was heard. All three were lost in thought, though coincidentally, their thoughts all centred on the same thing, or more correctly, the same man. Even though John wasn’t there, he was.

  “Did you hear the storm last night?” garbled Wayne, his mouth full of cereal.

  Virgil’s mouth was equally packed with cereal, but he nodded and said, “I think it went over twice.”

  Maggie, who was anxious to get John and his abs out of her head, decided to start a real conversation. “Hey, Virgil, want to come to the press conference with me? There’s going to be a bunch of TV cameras and reporters and fancy-dressed people. You might find it fun.”

  “I’ve been to your press conferences before. They’re boring. I think I’ll just hang with Uncle Wayne.” Virgil drained the last of his milk from his bowl. In truth, he’d barely tasted the Shreddies because he’d been so distracted thinking about John and his motorcycle.

  Wayne barely heard the mother–son conversation, because in his mind he was revisiting the encounter between John and the raccoons. As a nervous habit, but one conducive to his constant training, Wayne was clenching and unclenching his toes under the table.

  “Oh, really. And just what does Uncle Wayne have planned for today?”

  Realizing he had been plunged unwillingly into the table discussion, Wayne tried to formulate a constructive and believable lie. “Nothing really. Just hanging out. Maybe some visiting. Supplies, that kind of thing.” He added a smile for good effect.

  Maggie surveyed the two, not quite believing the supposed innocence of the men sitting around the table. “Are you two up to something?”

  Both males looked at each other with a passable expression of confusion. Then, in unison, they shook their heads.

  “Right. Well, Wayne, you are welcome here as long as you like and don’t get me wrong about my next question but how long do you plan to stay? I have to go grocery shopping at some point and I need to know how many people to buy for.”

  Spreading jam on the last piece of toast on his plate, Wayne thought for a moment. “No, I understand. Well, if all goes well, maybe tomorrow I’ll head back to the island.”

  “If what goes well?” Now Maggie knew he was up to something.

  “I… I have some business to attend to.”

  While Wayne talked, Virgil found his glass of orange juice suddenly very interesting.

  “Wayne, you have no business to speak of. That I know about!”

  “I might! I might have business,” responded an increasingly irate Wayne. “You don’t know! You don’t know me at all.”

  “Okay, like what business? Teaching a course on how to be a hermit?”

  “You never believed in me! You never did. Mom did, but you…”

  “Mom had to believe in you. You were the youngest, the baby. It comes with being a mother. Geez, Wayne, we all worry about you, over on that stupid island, doing whatever it is you do.” Maggie’s big-sister complex was never far below the surface.

  “You know what I do over there. I’ve told you lots of times. You just don’t care.”

  “Wayne, it’s not that we don’t care, in fact, we do care. It’s just that it’s… kinda silly. A Native martial art… really? You might as well be writing a Native opera or something. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Well, don’t worry about me. I am perfectly able to look after myself. Better than you!”

  Virgil drained the last of his suddenly interesting orange juice and looked across the table for something equally distracting. He tried to force the ongoing argument from his mind.

  “Yeah, right, you and your precious Indian martial art. My brother, the monk. I mean really, Wayne, I think you need a girlfriend. I know that might interfere with being a monk and all that, but…”

  “I am not a monk. And I will not talk to my big sister about getting a girlfriend. And you should talk, what with you being a motorcycle mama!” Wayne screamed, regretting the words immediately after they left his mouth.

  Virgil winced. The subject matter of the fight was getting uncomfortably close to the issues that they were all trying to avoid.

  Maggie’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know what I’m talking about,” replied a sullen Wayne.

  “John. You’re talking about John, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Or should I call him Nanabush? The blond, blue-eyed… I mean green-eyed…” said Maggie.

  “I thought they were hazel…”

  “Shut up, Virgil. What colour his eyes are is irrelevant. Wayne, you have been on that island way too long. The family’s been talking…”

  “Oh God. Not the family!”

  “… and we think, maybe you should consider moving back to the mainland. At the moment Willie is looking after Mom’s house. Since you were her favourite…”

  “Quit saying that. I was not her favourite.”

  “Just think about it. Okay?”

  Now the whole table became quiet again. Maggie was staring at Wayne, who was trying not to look at her. Virgil sat between them, like Poland between the Soviet Union and Germany. If history was correct, that was not a good place to be. It seemed to Virgil that this was up to him.

  “Press conference, huh, Mom? Sure. Actually, that might be fun. What time do you want me to be there?” Tension was still thick in the air and Maggie was defiantly staring at her brother. “Mom? What time do you want me there?”

  Almost reluctantly, Maggie turned her attention to her son. “Um, around three-thirty. Do you need a ride from school?”

  “No, that’s okay. I’ll be fine. Three-thirty. I’ll be there. Holy! Mom, look at the time. Shouldn’t you be at work? I’ve got to go to school!”

  Maggie glanced at the clock and, indeed, she was running late. Barely uttering a word, she grabbed her car keys and exited the house, this time not bothering to glance at her brother.

  As the sound of her car faded in the distance, Virgil let out a sizable breath. “That was close.”

  “I am not wasting my life. What I’m doing is important, damn it. So what if I don’t have a girlfriend right now. It’s no business of hers. Sisters, man. Sometimes they just make you want to…”
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br />   “Uncle Wayne, chill. And focus.” Once more, Virgil appreciated the fact he was an only child.

  Back at Sammy Aandeg’s place, John was fast asleep. It had been a long night/early morning and he was exhausted. Normally he slept only a few hours a night, if that. Most nights his sleep was uncomplicated by dreams. He had long ago taught himself not to dream because dreams had a nasty way of interfering in his life. Though he remembered a time when strange and marvellous things had sprung from dreams, and it had been a good thing. But creation had long ago ended. Nowadays, dreams were usually messages from a higher being. Other times, they were directions in life. And still other times, they were warnings about disasters or signs that something needed to be done. None of which interested him anymore, principally because he preferred his own company most of the time, so higher beings be damned. And of course, he hated being told what to do with his life by whatever spirit might tickle his subconscious. Everything else didn’t interest him. So, at the end of the day, he had chosen to dream no longer. It suited him well, especially when he saw what it did to people like Sammy. Late into the night John would stay awake, reading what few books the man had, and he would hear Sammy moaning and crying in the other room, a prisoner of his dreams.

  Most of the world was unaware of the power of dreams, or simply didn’t care. So people just dreamed willy-nilly and damn the consequences. It didn’t matter where or what they dreamed, they just dreamed and dreamed and dreamed, confident in the belief that dreams had no meaning. A lot of problems in the world had sprung from the widespread disrespect of dreams and the power within them. Much like being a pharmacologist with a store full of drugs, a little knowledge was usually a good prerequisite or bad things could happen. Essentially, he felt you should never dream unless you knew what the dreams were, where they came from, what they meant or what they do. But people had forgotten that. John was sure that explained the state of the world. Look at Sammy.

  Once upon a time, dreams were the doorway to different spiritual lands and powerful beings. John remembered when parts of the world were created by dreams. That was how the Creator often talked to you, through dreams. That was how you found your guardian spirit. That was how you found answers, and sometimes questions. Nowadays people ignored what their dreams told them. It was like they were driving on a highway and ignoring road signs. Sooner or later this would get them lost or into trouble.

  So, most nights, hour after hour, he would sit there in his host’s living room, reading while listening to Sammy dream his unfortunate dreams. At least he had books. He’d taken out a library membership under an assumed alias in town so that he could enjoy the simple pastime of reading. Television was fine. In fact John loved the medium. However, at three in the morning, out in the “burbs” of Otter Lake, the quality of programming left a lot to be desired. He neither wanted his soul saved, nor coveted some new fabulous kitchen utensil or cosmetic.

  This morning, a copy of Black Elk Speaks and the Kama Sutra by his bed, John slept, silently and dreamlessly, or so he thought at first. With all that had happened the day and night before, his resolve had weakened and a crack appeared. The normal silence of the night was slowly giving way. As he lay on his bed, his eyes began to move back and forth, slowly at first, but gradually faster. For the first time in a very long time, John dreamed.

  John found himself in a wooded glade. He didn’t know where he was exactly, though it looked familiar. But then, most wooded glades do. He was barefoot, but dressed in his leather pants and a thin T-shirt. There were no paths or roads into the glade. It was almost as if the woods had been constructed around him.

  “Shit, I’m dreaming,” he said. He had to be careful, for the world trembled when he dreamed.

  “Language, John, language.”

  The admonishment came from someone standing behind him. Turning, John saw a man in his early thirties, with long hair and dressed in a robe. John recognized him instantly.

  “Am I dreaming you or are you dreaming me?” he asked.

  The other man smiled. They stared at each other across the glade, then they slowly sauntered up to each other, stopping only a metre apart.

  “Well, John, maybe we’re both dreaming each other.”

  “Nice little place you have here. Lots of trees. I thought you preferred deserts and places like that.”

  “I like to travel. And did you know, I have a cousin named John.”

  “Good for you. What are you doing here? What am I doing here?”

  “Love the eyes. I just wanted to say hello.”

  “Hello back at you. I take it you heard me in the church?”

  “Yes, you sounded… angry.”

  “Do you blame me?”

  “I don’t blame anybody. You forget, I forgive.”

  “Well, good for you. Lillian seemed happy with all your forgiveness. I guess I can’t fault her for being happy. It worked for her. But I gotta say, you’re shorter than I thought.”

  “Well, you’re whiter than I thought.”

  “Touché. Hey, I read that book about you, your biography.”

  “My biography?”

  “Yeah, that big black book everybody talks about.”

  “I think it’s called the Bible.”

  “Yeah. Needed an editor. No offence, but it went on forever. And repeated itself. But man, you had a rough life.”

  “Just the last part of it. And it got better. It had a happy ending. As for you, you’re looking… better. I heard some things about you, unpleasant things.”

  “I have you and your friends to thank for that. You’re lucky I don’t hold a grudge either. I can forgive too. But I’ve learned my lesson. I’m trying to stay fit these days. Unlike you, I’m going to do my best to avoid dying. For my people, the novelty wore off several generations ago.”

  “Your people are my people too.”

  “Tell that to all your priests and ministers who used to look after my people. Tell it to Sammy Aandeg.”

  “Yeah, I’m getting a lot of that lately. Well, blame free will and all that.”

  “Well, they had more free will than Sammy did. And yet, you forgive them for all the horrible things they did? I’ll always have trouble figuring that one out.”

  “It’s all part of the contract. Everybody deserves a light at the end of the tunnel.”

  “An escape clause, huh? So, why are you here? I heard you don’t come and visit down here much anymore. Otter Lake the site of the Second Coming?”

  “Not if you’re Jewish. Well, my friend, we both loved Lillian. I didn’t think we should be enemies. And many people seem to really want and love you, so I…”

  “Sorry, but I am not loved like you are. I am not loved, I am beloved. There’s a substantial difference.”

  “There is? And just what is that difference?”

  “When you’re beloved, you get all the same warm and fuzzies as you do when you’re loved, but there’s a lot less responsibility involved. I like that kind of difference. It’s more bang for your buck.”

  “And the boy?”

  “What about him?”

  “Do you actually want him to grow up to be just like you, rootless, subject to every whim and desire, having no structure or roots? Boys, children in general, need to be loved, not just beloved.”

  “You know, every parent wants their kid to grow up like you, but most of them are actually closer to me. Perfection is boring. Flaws are interesting.”

  The other man chuckled.

  “You’ve got a nice smile,” said John. “You should smile more. Really.”

  “Thank you, but obviously, John, we’re very different people with different priorities. But if a woman like Lillian can hold both of us in her heart, we can’t be that far apart.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate that. You know, there was a time when I really envied that turning-wine-into-water trick. That would have solved a lot of problems for me then.”

  “And created a whole bunch of new ones too.”

&nbs
p; “Yes, it would have, no doubt about that.” John paused. “How’s Lillian?”

  “She’s fine. In fact, I have a message from her.”

  “What?”

  “Thanks for the thunderstorm.”

  John laughed out loud, and it felt good. “Thanks for the laugh.”

  “I do what I can.”

  This made John think for a second, and an idea came to him. “There is one more thing you can do for me, a small request. A favour. Guy to guy. There is something you have the ability to do that I would love to master. It would sure make travelling a lot easier.”

  The other man raised an eyebrow. “Oh really? How can I help?”

  “I’m glad you asked.” John explained, and the other man, whose hair was almost as long as John’s and who was just passing through the dream world, listened closely.

  In his sleep, John smiled.

  In another room of the house, Sammy sat fully awake, mumbling to himself, staring at the door behind which the stranger slept.

  Sammy knew the man was not a man, at least not in the dictionary sense of the word. However, he didn’t know what to do about that little fact. His social contacts, and his ability for social contact, had long since evaporated. So now he just sat, like he did most mornings, wishing the man would go or be gone.

  Almost ten days ago the blond White man had shown up at his door, talking like an old-fashioned Indian (as his generation still called them) should. The grouchier and crazier Sammy tried to appear, the more the man laughed. There was something about the stranger that convinced the old man that he could not turn the man away, though he was the first house guest Sammy had had in decades. He felt about the man’s presence the way you’d feel about a relative from some far-off country, or a branch of the family you’d never met, coming for a visit. They belonged there, somehow, and you had no right to deny them accommodation. You may not like it (and Sammy didn’t) but it would be wrong to do anything but tolerate them.